FIC: Not As Brave As You Were | Draco Malfoy | PG
Title: Not As Brave As You Were
Characters: Draco Malfoy
Word count: 625
Summary: Draco begins his mission for the Dark Lord.
Rating: PG
Warnings: None.
Author's Note: Written for darkarts_ldws' sixth. week. The prompts were Draco Malfoy and Borgin and Burkes.
Hands shaking like leaves, he fumbles the door latch of the shop. One, two, three times and finally it swings inward, allowing him in with a stale breathe of air.
Restless eyes take in the collection of curios, landing on items only briefly before moving to the next. There has to be something, something here that could help, that would do it. He’s seen it before, when he was young--younger, his mother would sob. No, don’t think about that. It has to still be here. It has to be.
There.
Trembling fingers reach out to touch some dust-gummed trinket then still, centimeters from a sign to the unwary: do not touch. Death and pain sit on these shelves, permeating the space until every breath is dark magic. Touch at your own risk, you pillock. His hand pulls back.
From behind the counter, an old man watches. Borgin or Burke? He’s never bothered to learn. There’s none of the pandering shop owner to the man now without Lucius there and, for a moment, Draco’s panic swells again because he knows he knows he knows but, of course, he knows; he’s probably been to the bloody meetings and oh Merlin, what if he reports back to the Dark Lord?
The phantom heat of red reptilian eyes presses against his back, pushing the air from his lungs. He fights a shiver and fails, looks again at what he almost touched. Could the lives of nineteen muggles match a single Dumbledore?
“Something you be wanting, young Master Malfoy?” the shopkeeper finally asks, still leaning against the counter, eyes glinting.
He draws himself up, attempting to wrap himself in his father’s authority, hoping it will serve him better than it has Lucius as of late. He is Malfoy, a name synonymous with money and influence. Of course he wants. And what he wants he can take, he tries to convince himself, pushing back the images of his mother flinching with fear, his disheveled father brought low, and his dear, sweet, psychotic aunt laughing and laughing and laughing.
The shopkeeper still watches.
“Yes, I will take this necklace,” he says, trying for an imperious tone but landing somewhere around petulant.
“Quite the history to it, that one. This ain’t the place to buy baubles for your mother.”
“I know.” His words this time are soft but resolute. He knows why he’s here in this festering wound of an enterprise. He has a goal, a mission, and, studying the star specked stones of the necklace against the black velvet case, he thinks he might even have the beginnings of a plan.
Borgin--he thinks it may be Borgin, anyway--nods, rounding the counter to retrieve the case and necklace, trapping the cursed object in its case with a sharp snap of the lid.
“That’ll be fifty galleons, Mister Malfoy.”
Coins hit the counter with dull thunks, one after another until there’s a small hill that Borgin sweeps into a bag, no fuss. The transaction is almost comforting, this is something he can do, has done all his life. This is how one procures what one wants when they are a Malfoy.
Except his hand still shakes on the case when shoves it into his robes, it’s still all wrong when he still feels the heat of eyes bore into him and a shattered laugh echoes in his head. It’s wrong because he’s gotten what he came for and yet he’s left wanting.
These days, he wants so many things but there’s no way to get them. His childhood never covered how to obtain what he could not buy.
One, two, three and the latch gives way again, allowing him out of the shop.
Characters: Draco Malfoy
Word count: 625
Summary: Draco begins his mission for the Dark Lord.
Rating: PG
Warnings: None.
Author's Note: Written for darkarts_ldws' sixth. week. The prompts were Draco Malfoy and Borgin and Burkes.
Hands shaking like leaves, he fumbles the door latch of the shop. One, two, three times and finally it swings inward, allowing him in with a stale breathe of air.
Restless eyes take in the collection of curios, landing on items only briefly before moving to the next. There has to be something, something here that could help, that would do it. He’s seen it before, when he was young--younger, his mother would sob. No, don’t think about that. It has to still be here. It has to be.
There.
Trembling fingers reach out to touch some dust-gummed trinket then still, centimeters from a sign to the unwary: do not touch. Death and pain sit on these shelves, permeating the space until every breath is dark magic. Touch at your own risk, you pillock. His hand pulls back.
From behind the counter, an old man watches. Borgin or Burke? He’s never bothered to learn. There’s none of the pandering shop owner to the man now without Lucius there and, for a moment, Draco’s panic swells again because he knows he knows he knows but, of course, he knows; he’s probably been to the bloody meetings and oh Merlin, what if he reports back to the Dark Lord?
The phantom heat of red reptilian eyes presses against his back, pushing the air from his lungs. He fights a shiver and fails, looks again at what he almost touched. Could the lives of nineteen muggles match a single Dumbledore?
“Something you be wanting, young Master Malfoy?” the shopkeeper finally asks, still leaning against the counter, eyes glinting.
He draws himself up, attempting to wrap himself in his father’s authority, hoping it will serve him better than it has Lucius as of late. He is Malfoy, a name synonymous with money and influence. Of course he wants. And what he wants he can take, he tries to convince himself, pushing back the images of his mother flinching with fear, his disheveled father brought low, and his dear, sweet, psychotic aunt laughing and laughing and laughing.
The shopkeeper still watches.
“Yes, I will take this necklace,” he says, trying for an imperious tone but landing somewhere around petulant.
“Quite the history to it, that one. This ain’t the place to buy baubles for your mother.”
“I know.” His words this time are soft but resolute. He knows why he’s here in this festering wound of an enterprise. He has a goal, a mission, and, studying the star specked stones of the necklace against the black velvet case, he thinks he might even have the beginnings of a plan.
Borgin--he thinks it may be Borgin, anyway--nods, rounding the counter to retrieve the case and necklace, trapping the cursed object in its case with a sharp snap of the lid.
“That’ll be fifty galleons, Mister Malfoy.”
Coins hit the counter with dull thunks, one after another until there’s a small hill that Borgin sweeps into a bag, no fuss. The transaction is almost comforting, this is something he can do, has done all his life. This is how one procures what one wants when they are a Malfoy.
Except his hand still shakes on the case when shoves it into his robes, it’s still all wrong when he still feels the heat of eyes bore into him and a shattered laugh echoes in his head. It’s wrong because he’s gotten what he came for and yet he’s left wanting.
These days, he wants so many things but there’s no way to get them. His childhood never covered how to obtain what he could not buy.
One, two, three and the latch gives way again, allowing him out of the shop.